CHAPTER VI
THE PARTING
The Boers, who ostensibly had come to the kloof to see the shooting
match, although, in fact, for a very different purpose, now began to
disperse. Some of them rode straight away, while some went to wagons
which they had outspanned at a distance, and trekked off to their
separate homes. I am glad to say that before they left quite a number
of the best of them came up and congratulated me both on the defence of
Maraisfontein and on my shooting. Also not a few expressed their views
concerning Pereira in very straightforward language.
Now, the arrangement was that my father and I were to sleep that night
at Marais's stead, returning home on the following morning. But my
father, who had been a silent but not unobservant witness of all this
scene, coming to the conclusion that after what had happened we should
scarcely be welcome there, and that the company of Pereira was to be
avoided just now, went up to Marais and bade him farewell, saying that
we would send for my mare.
"Not so, not so," he answered, "you are my guests to-night. Also, fear
not, Hernan will be away. He has gone a journey upon some business."
As my father hesitated, Marais added: "Friend, I pray you to come, for I
have some important words to say to you, which cannot be said here."
Then my father gave way, to my delight and relief. For if he had not,
what chance would there have been of my getting some still more
important words with Marie? So having collected the geese and the two
falcons, which I proposed to skin for Marie, I was helped into the cart,
and we drove off, reaching Maraisfontein just as night set in.
That evening, after we had eaten, Heer Marais asked my father and myself
to speak with him in the sitting-room. By an afterthought also, or so
it seemed to me, he told his daughter, who had been clearing away the
dishes and with whom as yet I had found no opportunity to talk, to come
in with us and close the door behind her.
When all were seated and we men had lit our pipes, though apprehension
of what was to follow quite took away my taste for smoking, Marais spoke
in English, which he knew to a certain extent. This was for the benefit
of my father, who made it a point of honour not to understand Dutch,
although he would answer Marais in that language when _he_ pretended not
to understand English. To me he spoke in Dutch, and occasionally in
French to Marie. It was a most curious and polyglot conversation.
"Young Allan," he said, "and you, daughter Marie, I have heard stories
concerning you that, although I never gave you leave to 'opsit'" (that
is, to sit up alone at night with candles, according to the Boer fashion
between those who are courting), "you have been making love to each
other."
"That is true, mynheer," I said. "I only waited an opportunity to tell
you that we plighted our troth during the attack of the Quabies on this
house."
"Allemachte! Allan, a strange time to choose," answered Marais, pulling
at his beard;" the troth that is plighted in blood is apt to end in
blood."
"A vain superstition to which I cannot consent," interrupted my father.
"Perhaps so," I answered. "I know not; God alone knows. I only know
that we plighted our troth when we thought ourselves about to die, and
that we shall keep that troth till death ends it."
"Yes, my father," added Marie, leaning forward across the scored
yellow-wood table, her chin resting on her hand and her dark, buck-like
eyes looking him in the face. "Yes, my father, that is so, as I have
told you already."
"And I tell you, Marie, what I have told you already, and you too,
Allan, that this thing may not be," answered Marais, hitting the table
with his fist. "I have nothing to say against you, Allan; indeed, I
honour you, and you have done me a mighty service, but it may not be."
"Why not, mynheer?" I asked.
"For three reasons, Allan, each of which is final. You are English, and
I do not wish my daughter to marry an Englishman; that is the first.
You are poor, which is no discredit to you, and since I am now ruined my
daughter cannot marry a poor man; that is the second. You live here,
and my daughter and I are leaving this country, therefore you cannot
marry her; that is the third," and he paused.
"Is there not a fourth," I asked, "which is the real reason? Namely,
that you wish your daughter to marry someone else."
"Yes, Allan; since you force me to it, there is a fourth. I have
affianced my daughter to her cousin, Hernando Pereira, a man of
substance and full age; no lad, but one who knows his own mind and can
support a wife."
"I understand," I answered calmly, although within my heart a very hell
was raging. "But tell me, mynheer, has Marie affianced herself--or
perhaps she will answer with her own lips?"
"Yes, Allan," replied Marie in her quiet fashion, "I have affianced
myself--to you and no other man."
"You hear, mynheer," I said to Marais.
Then he broke out in his usual excitable manner. He stormed, he argued,
he rated us both. He said that he would never allow it; that first he
would see his daughter in her grave. That I had abused his confidence
and violated his hospitality; that he would shoot me if I came near his
girl. That she was a minor, and according to the law he could dispose
of her in marriage. That she must accompany him whither he was going;
that certainly I should not do so, and much more of the same sort.
When at last he had tired himself out and smashed his favourite pipe
upon the table, Marie spoke, saying:
"My father, you know that I love you dearly, for since my mother's death
we have been everything to each other, have we not?"
"Surely, Marie, you are my life, and more than my life."
"Very well, my father. That being so, I acknowledge your authority over
me, whatever the law may say. I acknowledge that you have the right to
forbid me to marry Allan, and if you do forbid me--while I am under age,
at any rate--I shall not marry him because of my duty to you.
But"--here she rose and looked him full in the eyes, and oh! how stately
she seemed at that moment in her simple strength and youthful
grace!--"there is one thing, my father, that I do not acknowledge--your
right to force me to marry any other man. As a woman with power over
herself, I deny that right; and much as it pains me, my father, to
refuse you anything, I say that first I will die. To Allan here I have
given myself for good or for evil, and if I may not marry Allan, I will
go to the grave unwed. If my words hurt you, I pray you to pardon me,
but at the same time to remember that they are my words, which cannot be
altered."
Marais looked at his daughter, and his daughter looked at Marais. At
first I thought that he was about to curse her; but if this were so,
something in her eyes seemed to change his mind, for all he said was:
"Intractable, like the rest of your race! Well, Fate may lead those who
cannot be driven, and this matter I leave in the hands of Fate. While
you are under age--that is, for two years or more--you may not marry
without my consent, and have just promised not to do so. Presently we
trek from this country into far-off lands. Who knows what may happen
there?"
"Yes," said my father in a solemn voice, speaking for the first time,
"who knows except God, Who governs all things, and will settle these
matters according to His will, Henri Marais? Listen," he went on after
a pause, for Marais made no answer, but sat himself down and stared
gloomily at the table. "You do not wish my son to marry your daughter
for various reasons, of which one is that you think him poor and a
richer suitor has offered himself after a reverse of fortune has made
_you_ poor. Another and a greater, the true reason, is his English
blood, which you hate so much that, although by God's mercy he saved her
life, you do not desire that he should share her life. Is it not true?"
"Yes, it is true, Mynheer Quatermain. You English are bullies and
cheats," he answered excitedly.
"And so you would give your daughter to one who has shown himself humble
and upright, to that good hater of the English and plotter against his
King, Hernando Pereira, whom you love because he alone is left of your
ancient race."
Remembering the incident of the afternoon, this sarcasm reduced Marais
to silence.
"Well," went on my father, "although I am fond of Marie, and know her to
be a sweet and noble-hearted girl, neither do I wish that she should
marry my son. I would see him wed to some English woman, and not
dragged into the net of the Boers and their plottings. Still, it is
plain that these two love each other with heart and soul, as doubtless
it has been decreed that they should love. This being so, I tell you
that to separate them and force another marriage upon one of them is a
crime before God, of which, I am sure, He will take note and pay it back
to you. Strange things may happen in those lands whither you go, Henri
Marais. Will you not, then, be content to leave your child in safe
keeping?"
"Never!" shouted Marais. "She shall accompany me to a new home, which
is not under the shadow of your accursed British flag."
"Then I have no more to say. On your head be it here and hereafter,"
replied my father solemnly.
Now unable to control myself any longer I broke in:
"But I have, mynheer. To separate Marie and myself is a sin, and one
that will break her heart. As for my poverty, I have something, more
perhaps than you think, and in this rich country wealth can be earned by
those who work, as I would do for her sake. The man to whom you would
give her showed his true nature this day, for he who can play so low a
trick to win a wager, will play worse tricks to win greater things.
Moreover, the scheme must fail since Marie will not marry him."
"I say she shall," replied Marais; "and that whether she does or not,
she shall accompany me and not stay here to be the wife of an English
boy."
"Accompany you I will, father, and share your fortunes to the last. But
marry Hernando Pereira I will not," said Marie quietly.
"Perhaps, mynheer," I added, "days may come when once again you will be
glad of the help of an 'English boy.'"
The words were spoken at random, a kind of ejaculation from the heart,
caused by the sting of Marais's cruelty and insults, like the cry of a
beast beneath a blow. Little did I know how true they would prove, but
at times it is thus that truth is mysteriously drawn from some well of
secret knowledge hidden in our souls.
"When I want your help I will ask for it," raved Marais, who, knowing
himself to be in the wrong, strove to cover up that wrong with violence.
"Asked or unasked, if I live it shall be given in the future as in the
past, Mynheer Marais. God pardon you for the woe you are bringing on
Marie and on me."
Now Marie began to weep a little, and, unable to bear that sight, I
covered my eyes with my hand. Marais, who, when he was not under the
influence of his prejudices or passion, had a kind heart, was moved
also, but tried to hide his feelings in roughness. He swore at Marie,
and told her to go to bed, and she obeyed, still weeping. Then my
father rose and said:
"Henri Marais, we cannot leave here to-night because the horses are
kraaled, and it would be difficult to find them in this darkness, so we
must ask your hospitality till dawn."
"_I_ do not ask it," I exclaimed. "I go to sleep in the cart," and I
limped from the room and the house, leaving the two men together.
What passed afterwards between them I do not quite know. I gathered
that my father, who, when roused, also had a temper and was mentally and
intellectually the stronger man, told Marais his opinion of his
wickedness and folly in language that he was not likely to forget. I
believe he even drove him to confess that his acts seemed cruel,
excusing them, however, by announcing that he had sworn before God that
his daughter should never marry an Englishman. Also he said that he had
promised her solemnly to Pereira, his own nephew, whom he loved, and
could not break his word.
"No," answered my father, "because, being mad with the madness that runs
before destruction, you prefer to break Marie's heart and perhaps become
guilty of her blood."
Then he left him.
The darkness was intense. Through it I groped my way to the cart, which
stood where it had been outspanned on the veld at a little distance from
the house, wishing heartily, so miserable was I, that the Kaffirs might
choose that black night for another attack and make an end of me.
When I reached it and lit the lantern which we always carried, I was
astonished to find that, in a rough fashion, it had been made ready to
sleep in. The seats had been cleared out, the hind curtain fastened,
and so forth. Also the pole was propped up with an ox-yoke so as to
make the vehicle level to lie in. While I was wondering vaguely who
could have done this, Hans climbed on to the step, carrying two karosses
which he had borrowed or stolen, and asked if I was comfortable.
"Oh, yes!" I answered; "but why were you going to sleep in the cart?"
"Baas," he replied, "I was not; I prepared it for you. How did I know
that you were coming? Oh, very simply. I sat on the stoep and listened
to all the talk in the sitkammer. The window has never been mended,
baas, since the Quabies broke it. God in Heaven! what a talk that was.
I never knew that white people could have so much to say about a simple
matter. You want to marry the Baas Marais's daughter; the baas wants
her to marry another man who can pay more cattle. Well, among us it
would soon have been settled, for the father would have taken a stick
and beaten you out of the hut with the thick end. Then he would have
beaten the girl with the thin end until she promised to take the other
man, and all would have been settled nicely. But you Whites, you talk
and talk, and nothing is settled. You still mean to marry the daughter,
and the daughter still means not to marry the man of many cows.
Moreover, the father has really gained nothing except a sick heart and
much bad luck to come."
"Why much bad luck to come, Hans?" I asked idly, for his naive summing
up of the case interested me in a vague way.
"Oh! Baas Allan, for two reasons. First, your reverend father, who made
me true Christian, told him so, and a predicant so good as he, is one
down whom the curse of God runs from Heaven like lightning runs down a
tree. Well, the Heer Marais was sitting under that tree, and we all
know what happens to him who is under a tree when the lightning strikes
it. That my first Christian reason. My second black-man reason, about
which there can be no mistake, for it has always been true since there
was a black man, is that the girl is yours by blood. You saved her life
with your blood," and he pointed to my leg, "and therefore bought her
for ever, for blood is more than cattle. Therefore, too, he who would
divide her from you brings blood on her and on the other man who tries
to steal her, blood, blood! and on himself I know not what." And he
waved his yellow arms, staring up at me with his little black eyes in a
way that was most uncanny.
"Nonsense!" I said. "Why do you talk such bad words?"
"Because they are true words, Baas Allan. Oh, you laugh at the poor
Totty; but I had it from my father, and he from his father from
generation to generation, amen, and you will see. You will see, as I
have seen before now, and as the Heer Marais will see, who, if the great
God had not made him mad--for mad he is, baas, as we know, if you Whites
don't--might have lived in his home till he was old, and have had a good
son-in-law to bury him in his blanket."
Now I seemed to have had enough of this eerie conversation. Of course
it is easy to laugh at natives and their superstitions, but, after a
long life of experience, I am bound to admit that they are not always
devoid of truth. The native has some kind of sixth sense which the
civilised man has lost, or so it seems to me.
"Talking of blankets," I said in order to change the subject, "from whom
did you get these karosses?"
"From whom? Why, from the Missie, of course, baas. When I heard that
you were to sleep in the cart I went to her and borrowed them to cover
you. Also, I had forgotten, she gave me a writing for you," and he felt
about, first in his dirty shirt, then under his arm, and finally in his
fuzzy hair, from which last hiding place he produced a little bit of
paper folded into a pellet. I undid it and read these words, written
with a pencil and in French:--
"I shall be in the peach orchard half an hour before sunrise. Be there
if you would bid me farewell.--M."
"Is there any answer, baas?" asked Hans when I had thrust the note into
my pocket. "If so I can take it without being found out." Then an
inspiration seemed to strike him, and he added: "Why do you not take it
yourself? The Missie's window is easy to open, also I am sure she would
be pleased to see you."
"Be silent," I said. "I am going to sleep. Wake me an hour before the
cock-crow--and, stay--see that the horses have got out of the kraal so
that you cannot find them too easily in case the Reverend wishes to
start very early. But do not let them wander far, for here we are no
welcome guests."
"Yes, baas. By the way, baas, the Heer Pereira, who tried to cheat you
over those geese, is sleeping in an empty house not more than two miles
away. He drinks coffee when he wakes up in the morning, and his
servant, who makes it, is my good friend. Now would you like me to put
a little something into it? Not to kill him, for that is against the
law in the Book, but just to make him quite mad, for the Book says
nothing about that. If so, I have a very good medicine, one that you
white people do not know, which improves the taste of the coffee, and it
might save much trouble. You see, if he came dancing about the place
without any clothes on, like a common Kaffir, the Heer Marais, although
_he_ is really mad also, might not wish for him as a son-in-law."
"Oh! go to the devil if you are not there already," I replied, and
turned over as though to sleep.
There was no need for me to have instructed that faithful creature, the
astute but immoral Hans, to call me early, as the lady did her mother in
the poem, for I do not think that I closed an eye that night. I spare
my reflections, for they can easily be imagined in the case of an
earnest-natured lad who was about to be bereft of his first love.
Long before the dawn I stood in the peach orchard, that orchard where we
had first met, and waited. At length Marie came stealing between the
tree trunks like a grey ghost, for she was wrapped in some
light-coloured garment. Oh! once more we were alone together. Alone in
the utter solitude and silence which precede the African dawn, when all
creatures that love the night have withdrawn to their lairs and hiding
places, and those that love the day still sleep their soundest.
She saw me and stood still, then opened her arms and clasped me to her
breast, uttering no word. A while later she spoke almost in a whisper,
saying:
"Allan, I must not stay long, for I think that if my father found us
together, he would shoot you in his madness."
Now as always it was of me she thought, not of herself.
"And you, my sweet?" I asked.
"Oh!" she answered, "that matters nothing. Except for the sin of it I
wish he would shoot me, for then I should have done with all this pain.
I told you, Allan, when the Kaffirs were on us yonder, that it might be
better to die; and see, my heart spoke truly."
"Is there no hope?" I gasped. "Will he really separate us and take you
away into the wilderness?"
"Certainly, nothing can turn him. Yet, Allan, there is this hope. In
two years, if I live, I shall be of full age, and can marry whom I will;
and this I swear, that I will marry none but you, no, not even if you
were to die to-morrow."
"I bless you for those words," I said.
"Why?" she asked simply. "What others could I speak? Would you have me
do outrage to my own heart and go through life faithless and ashamed?"
"And I, I swear also," I broke in.
"Nay, swear nothing. While I live I know that you will love me, and if
I should be taken, it is my wish that you should marry some other good
woman, since it is not well or right that man should live alone. With
us maids it is different. Listen, Allan, for the cocks are beginning to
crow, and soon there will be light. You must bide here with your
father. If possible, I will write to you from time to time, telling you
where we are and how we fare. But if I do not write, know that it is
because I cannot, or because I can find no messenger, or because the
letters have miscarried, for we go into wild countries, amongst
savages."
"Whither do you go?" I asked.
"I believe up towards the great harbour called Delagoa Bay, where the
Portuguese rule. My cousin Hernan, who accompanies us"--and she
shivered a little in my arms--"is half Portuguese. He tells the Boers
that he has relations there who have written him many fine promises,
saying they will give us good country to dwell in where we cannot be
followed by the English, whom he and my father hate so much."
"I have heard that is all fever veld, and that the country between is
full of fierce Kaffirs," I said with a groan.
"Perhaps. I do not know, and I do not care. At least, that is the
notion in my father's head, though, of course, circumstances may change
it. I will try to let you know, Allan, or if I do not, perhaps you will
be able to find out for yourself. Then, then, if we both live and you
still care for me, who will always care for you, when I am of age, you
will join us and, say and do what they may, I will marry no other man.
And if I die, as may well happen, oh! then my spirit shall watch over
you and wait for you till you join me beneath the wings of God. Look,
it grows light. I must go. Farewell, my love, my first and only love,
till in life or death we meet again, as meet we shall."
Once more we clung together and kissed, muttering broken words, and then
she tore herself from my embrace and was gone. But oh! as I heard her
feet steal through the dew-laden grass, I felt as though my heart were
being rent from my breast. I have suffered much in life, but I do not
think that ever I underwent a bitterer anguish than in this hour of my
parting from Marie. For when all is said and done, what joy is there
like the joy of pure, first love, and what bitterness like the
bitterness of its loss?
Half an hour later the flowering trees of Maraisfontein were behind us,
while in front rolled the fire-swept veld, black as life had become for
me.
